And people. Hundreds of them.
Two sets of bleachers face each other across the expanse. On the left, the inmates wear dark, heavy blue. On the right, a sea of hard faces dressed in dull gray. Even from this distance, I can see how threadbare their gray coveralls are, the malnutrition in their ashen skin, and the anger in their burning eyes.
And in the center? A cluster of prisoners in red, just like me. They mill around the middle of the yard, hunch-shouldered and miserable.
The doors behind me open again, and a reedy voice sounds over the general noise. “I’ve got money! Get me out of here and I’ll make you rich!” Julian’s voice is high and desperate.
I don’t want to be associated with him. I can’t be. I lift my chin, forcing my spine into a rigid line, and take several steps forward onto the frost-covered concrete.
That’s when I’m noticed.
The whistling starts first, a sharp, piercing sound that cuts through the wind. Then comes the whooping, followed by a rhythmic, low-thrumming chant that vibrates in my chest.
“Fresh fish… fresh fish… fresh fish…”
Fuck.
I will not crumble. I will not look like a victim. I channel every ounce of Cosmo’s effortless disdain, staring straight ahead as I stride into the center of the pit, trying to look completely unconcerned.
But in truth? I am concerned.
Very, very concerned.
3. TALIESIN
Another fucking day in this hellhole.
It’s gotten easier since I stopped giving a shit.
Whoever Taliesin Bevan was when he walked through those gates a year ago is dead and buried. Now, I’m just Taliesin. Bossman of the Gravediggers.
As such, it’s on me to notice problems before they get out of hand. And today, something is scratching at my hind-brain, but I don’t yet know what the danger is.
I’d noticed the shift the moment I stepped into the yard this morning. It’s something to do with the attitude of the guards.
Usually, bored indifference is their MO, but not today.
Why are the screws on the catwalk walking with a new swagger?
And they’re packing heavy. Suppression darts as well as the usual rifles. That’s enough gear to shut down an Elite magic convention.
Why waste the budget? It’s not like the Guild are going to suddenly reignite their sparks. I just don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. When things don’t make sense, I pay attention.
Speaking of things that don’t make sense, a fat, hand-rolled smoke whistles through the air toward my head. I snatch it out of the sky and look around.
Oh Gods.
A couple of rows below me, the Demented-Digger Twins, Keisha and Alanna, are looking at me with a feral sort of hunger. Keisha winks and Alanna blows a kiss.
No thanks, Ladies.
They’re in for carving up their parents. The abusive fucks deserved every one of the hundred-odd stabs they got, but the fallout left the girls… unstable. It’s a package deal with those two: one sister leaves you screaming, the other leaves you bleeding.
Beside me, Clay lets out an ear-piercing whistle. “Fresh fish, Boss.”
The chant starts up, and I look down into the center of the yard at the two newcomers. A weak-looking boy, who is not sobbing yet, but he’s vibrating with a frantic, cornered energy. He looks like a lower-status witch trying to summon a lawyer with his mind.
Dimitry is welcome to him.
